


Why A Lute is Not Worth More Than a Jacket

by aravenwood



Series: Whumptober 2020 [18]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27134224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aravenwood/pseuds/aravenwood
Summary: It’s minus five degrees Celsius and Jaskier has regrets. He regrets deciding to walk to Geralt’s instead of spending money on a bus or taxi. He regrets not wearing a thicker jacket and forgetting his gloves on the train the other day. And he regrets not actually owning a jacket thicker than a hoodie.Written for the Whumptober 2020 prompt "hypothermia".
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Whumptober 2020 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947343
Comments: 18
Kudos: 242
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Why A Lute is Not Worth More Than a Jacket

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Just a short, slightly fluffy one today! I am honestly surprised that this is my first attempt at a modern AU for this fandom but I really enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Please enjoy!

It’s minus five degrees Celsius and Jaskier has regrets. He regrets deciding to walk to Geralt’s instead of spending money on a bus or taxi. He regrets not wearing a thicker jacket and forgetting his gloves on the train the other day. And he regrets not actually  _ owning  _ a jacket thicker than a hoodie.. That’s probably the biggest regret of all, but in his defence his beloved lute had snapped several strings and was in dire need of a new case, and after all it was the lute that paid the bills, not a jacket.

But now that he’s still a good mile and a half from Geralt’s house and the snow is coming down even harder than it was when he left the house. His fingers have long since numbed from the cold and he doesn’t even want to think of how blue his balls will be. It’s not helpful that Geralt lives a little ways outside of town, down a peaceful dirt road which is pure bliss in the summer. In winter, however, it’s practically a death trap; there’s a good foot and a half of snow covering its surface and a thin layer of ice hidden beneath it - Jaskier has almost fallen several times now, and his muscles are aching from being held so tense in an attempt to remain upright.

If he wasn’t closer to Geralt’s house now than his own, he would turn around and head home. But all he can think of is the huge fireplace in Geralt’s sitting room and how nice it’s going to feel on his icy skin. If he’s being honest, it’s the only thing keeping him going.

One foot in front of the other. He’ll get there eventually. If he doesn’t freeze to death before then.

-

Geralt, bless his giant witchery heart, already has the fire roaring by the time Jaskier arrives. Granted, it’s a fire he built for Ciri because apparently she’s been complaining about being cold all day, but they’re more than happy to let Jaskier share it.

In fact, Geralt is almost insistent.

“Did you walk here? What the fuck were you thinking, you could have called and told me you couldn’t come. Or asked me to pick you up! Melitele’s tits, Jaskier, you’re blue!” he snaps as he ushers Jaskier through the house, ignoring half-hearted protests at the snow being trekked across the floor. He’s almost forceful as he strips Jaskier out of his sodden hoodie.

Jaskier sits down heavily in front of the fire and fumbles with the laces of his converse with icy fingers that will not cooperate. He barely has the energy to protest as Ciri kneels in front of him and pulls one leg closer to her, tugging on his shoelaces with nimble fingers. “I wanted to surprise you,” Jaskier mumbles, his words thick and slurred.

Ciri lets out a long-suffering sigh which comes out a little shakier than it should be, the only sign that seeing Jaskier sodden and blue has shaken her up. “Some surprise, a half-dead musician,” she grumbles and sounds so much like Geralt that Jaskier has to double-take. 

He snorts. “Geralt, you’re teaching her bad habits.”

“What?” Geralt says absently as he strips Jaskier of his shirt, ignoring Jaskier’s weak struggles and mumbles that it’s too cold.

“She has your sarcasm,” Jaskier explains, an unspoken “duh” lingering in the air between them. He suddenly lets out a quiet whimper as Ciri works his shoes off his feet, then his socks. His feet are ghostly white save for his toes, which have taken on the same blue tinge as his lips and fingers. Jaskier notices them, and he can’t stop staring. He’s barely aware as Ciri hurries upstairs, mumbling something about getting blankets and towels.

He also misses Geralt taking Ciri’s place in front of him and placing a hand on his cheek. “Jaskier! Wake up! I know you’re cold but you can’t sleep,” the larger man snaps. His eyes are wide and frightened in a way that looks wrong on a man so strong. Jaskier thinks about hugging him but his limbs are heavy and don’t want to work. 

Even his eyelids are heavy. He finds himself drifting despite Geralt’s insistence.

The next several minutes are hazy. He’s vaguely aware of hands on him again, of something heavy being pulled over his shoulders, of other things being wrapped around his feet. There’s hands on his, rubbing them and kneading them, and bit by bit the numbness fades, only to be replaced by pain.

“Ah, shit,” he says through his teeth.

“Jaskier!” Ciri cries, and there’s a small body wrapped around him. Thin, muscular arms hold him tight and he can’t help but be impressed once more at her strength. 

He manages to open his eyes and finds Geralt sitting mere inches from him, still kneading his hands. “Warmer?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier nods.

“Good. We’re getting you a new jacket, you’re not wearing a fucking hoodie in a blizzard.”

Jaskier wants to protest, wants to say that he can get his own jacket thank you very much, but he sees the traces of panic in Geralt’s eyes and feels the minute tremors coming from Ciri, and he bites his tongue. He really hadn’t meant to worry them, all he’d wanted was to visit them.

So instead, he stays quiet and lets them fret. It’s nice, he thinks, to be cared for. And to know that the people he considers his family really do care.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
